


Ain't Used To What You Like

by leonidaslion



Series: Disturbia [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summertime and the boys' blood is up ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't Used To What You Like

**Author's Note:**

> Set the summer following Ch 59 in Disturbia.

“Sammy, get me a beer, would’ya?”

Sam’s been home all of thirty seconds when the demand comes filtering through the house, but it’s accompanied by the tantalizing scent of barbeque, and the knowledge that there’s fresh meat to be had takes the edge off of his irritation. He’s still pretty exhausted, though, and he doesn’t have the energy to call back an affirmative as he drops his book bag on the couch and heads into the kitchen.

Either his brain isn’t used to the rigors of college after so many years away, or finishing up his senior year requirements in a single summer is just a bad idea all around, because by the end of the day thinking is always sort of like wading through lumpy, half-congealed soup. Although really, at least half of Sam’s exhaustion is due to the man humming along to the Stones song that’s blaring from the radio out on the back deck.

Even at its simplest, trying to manage a new relationship is a complicated task. Add romance to the mix and complicated becomes difficult. Then there’s the fact that this isn’t actually a new relationship—just a new _dynamic_ —which means that they’re both already dragging around enough baggage to sink an ocean liner.

And Dean is—Christ, even on Dean’s good days, he leaves Sam with the impression that he’s juggling glass. It isn’t that Dean isn’t trying—he is, so much so that Sam can see the lines of effort on his brother’s face at times—but with so much tangled history between them, sometimes being with Dean is a little like navigating a minefield. Blindfolded. With a honking big ball and chain clanking along behind each ankle.

The incest thing shouldn’t be an issue in comparison to everything else, especially when Sam was certain he came to terms with it long ago, but it rears its ugly head at odd, unexpected moments anyway. Like the time Frannie cornered them both when they were at the grocery store picking up some chips and dip and asked whether or not Dean had met Sam’s father yet. Or worse, when Jesse King—a hunter from down Texas way—stopped by Bobby’s for a visit and found out just what the Winchester brothers were up to.

They stepped in that particular snake’s nest a little over a month ago now, which means that the hunting world has by and large gotten over the ensuing ripples, but Sam still gets an unpleasant, sour taste in his mouth when he thinks about it too much. “Fuck ‘em,” has been Dean’s response, at least out loud, but Sam wonders whether his brother thinks he’s fooling anyone when he always goes quiet and withdrawn after any mention of outside disapproval or disgust. For a while there, Sam was worried that Dean would snap under the strain and call the whole thing off, but if anything his brother seems more determined to make this thing between them work. His way of thumbing his nose at the world, Sam guesses.

At least they’ve both stopped worrying that a hunter is going to spill the truth about their relationship to the local civilians. If it were going to happen, it would have by now. As far as Sam’s concerned, it’s about time that the hunter’s _‘screw the rest of the world, we can deal with our own shit by ourselves_ ’ mentality is working for rather than against them.

But it’s still a strain they don’t need. And so is the constant, well-meaning scrutiny from their Humboldt neighbors. Sam can’t take his brother out to grab a quick ice cream cone without being interrogated about it the next day, for crying out loud. Winston promises him that the women will eventually lose interest, but it’s been six months since they finally reconnected at Dean’s birthday party, three months since Sam finally caved and moved into Erica’s old room, and Sam hasn’t seen any sign of it yet.

So yeah, this thing he has going with Dean occupies a good deal of brain-space and energy that Sam could really be using to further his studies. But, as worn out as he is, Sam doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. And fucked if he’s letting Dean get away now, after he worked so hard to get his arms around his brother in the first place.

The sliding door that leads out to the back porch is open, spilling late afternoon sunlight into the kitchen, but Dean has the ceiling fan going and it isn’t actually hot inside. Sam is still covered in what feel like layers of dried sweat from his day on campus, though, so he pauses at the kitchen sink, splashing his overheated face with water and then drying off with a hand towel before going over to the fridge.

“Red Dog or Rheingold?” he calls over his shoulder as he peers down at the line of bottles on the inside of the door. “Or, uh, there’s a Corona.”

The clack of nails on linoleum gives Sam a couple seconds warning and then Bonham hits him from behind, jumping up on him and making happy welcoming noises. Absently, Sam gets a hand behind him—both to fend the dog off and to give him a quick, customary scratch behind the ears—and then, at his brother's answer, grabs a Red Dog for Dean and an A&W for himself and heads outside.

Dean is standing over the grill with his back to Sam, and Sam pauses just outside the sliding doors to take in the view. His brother is barefoot—has always liked the way warmed wood feels on the soles of his feet—and wearing a pair of old, worn jeans that Sam’s been meaning to throw out for weeks.

Last night, he actually got as far as pulling the offending pants out of the dresser and leaving them tossed over a chair by Dean’s bedroom door. His brother must have grabbed them when he finally stumbled out of bed—these days, as Sam has discovered, Dean is practically blind until he gets a cup of coffee in him. He’s also lazy as hell on his days off; once he woke up enough to realize how many worn patches and fraying tears made up the jeans he was wearing, no way would he be motivated enough to change into something else.

Although now that he’s seeing the jeans off the hanger, so to speak, Sam has to admit that they look pretty fucking fantastic on Dean. They’re stressed in all the right places, hanging low around his waist where the band has gotten a little too stretched out, and Sam makes a mental note not to throw any of his brother’s clothes away, no matter how ratty they look sitting in the dresser. Not when it gets him views like this.

Sam trails his gaze upward, over the tantalizing curve of Dean’s ass to the small of his back, and his brother isn’t wearing a shirt. It’s hot as fuck under the sun, so Sam doesn’t blame him, but the sight of all that bare, tan skin—interrupted only by the thin strings of the apron he has on and shining with a layer of sweat—is doing maddening things to Sam’s libido. Dean, of course, is oblivious; mucking around with the meat in front of him while he bobs his head in time with the music and sings snatches of the song in between hums.

The radio has switched from the Stones to Def Leppard, and as Sam stands there, his brother sings, “Hmm mmm mmm .... pour some sugar on me, ooh in the name of love ... hmm mmm hmm ...” Off key or not, it’s giving Sam all sorts of ideas that he already knows he can’t follow through on.

Bonham gives a happy bark as he brushes past Sam’s legs to sit down by Dean, head tilted back and staring attentively up at the grill. He wags his tail slowly from side to side, hope evident in the cock of his head and the loll of his tongue, and after a few seconds Dean drops a chunk of meat on the deck. Bonham is on it instantly, tail moving faster as he takes his treat over near the railing to eat in private.

“He’s gonna get fat,” Sam warns, moving forward again.

Dean shrugs without turning around. “Meh. I’ll take him to the park later, throw the ball around.”

Or more likely, Dean will take Bonham to the park and the local kids will spend a couple of hours running the dog’s energy into the ground. Mutt’s almost as popular as Sam’s brother is with the younger crowd.

“Here,” Sam says as he comes up alongside his brother, and hands over the beer.

Dean takes the bottle with a casual smile, popping the cap off on the side of the grill before lifting it to his lips and tilting his head back. From this angle, Sam can see that his brother is wearing the wrap around shades he favors on sunny days and, of course, the ever-present wrist cuffs. The leather bands can’t be comfortable in this heat, and it isn’t like anyone’s around to look at the scars hidden beneath, but Sam’s been here long enough to know that that doesn’t matter.

Dean’s here. He’d see, and that’s enough of a reason.

 _One step at a time,_ Sam reminds himself, and doesn’t comment on the cuffs as he opens his own bottle more slowly and joins his brother in a drink.

“What are we having?” he asks once he’s done swallowing, and leans around his brother’s body to peer at the grill.

“Ribs.” Holding onto his beer with his left hand, Dean turns a slab of meat over with the tongs in his right. It’s just one word, but he sounds—fuck, he sounds so happy, so content—and when he glances at Sam, he’s wearing a loose, lazy smile. The sun has put highlights in his hair, and although the tan he’s sporting makes his scars stand out sharply, the small, hooked imperfection on Dean’s forehead seems insignificant.

Possibly because Sam can’t look at anything but his brother’s generous mouth and the blinding flash of his teeth when he’s grinning like that.

“So,” Dean says, nudging Sam with one shoulder as he reaches past him to put the tongs down. “You gonna follow orders, or what?”

“Huh?” Sam responds, and then blinks as Dean points at his chest with a smirk.

The apron his brother is wearing says ‘Kiss the Cook’ in big, red letters. There’s even a lipstick mark next to the words; a helpful cue for the illiterate, maybe.

“That’s new,” Sam comments, made stupid by the unexpectedly playful way Dean is ... is what? Flirting?

“Yup,” Dean says, sounding amused as he looks down at himself. “Picked it up in the city last week. Thought you’d like it.”

“Uh…”

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes, although the tilt to his lips is still more patient than annoyed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, and then grabs Sam with the hand not hanging onto his beer and pulls him in for a thorough kiss.

Sam gets on board with the plan ( _he’s slow, not dead_ ) and kisses back, noticing the mingled taste of beer and barbeque on his brother’s mouth—Dean must have taste-tested the sauce before he poured it onto the ribs. With his brother’s mouth against his, it becomes instinct to bring his hand up to tilt Dean’s face to a better angle, deepening the kiss. Sam traces his tongue over his brother’s lips and Dean makes a low noise—something between a grunt and a moan. A second later, his hand hooks in the waistband of Sam’s pants, dragging their crotches more firmly together.

Dean’s hard.

It’s surprising enough to startle Sam out of the kiss and back him up a couple of steps. He hasn’t gotten that kind of reaction from his brother since he came back—admittedly, they haven’t shared a bed since that first night, but there have been plenty of marathon make-out sessions. Sam was actually starting to wonder whether Dean was capable of more than the slow, easy play of lip on lip.

But the bulge of his brother’s erection is obvious against the worn inseam of his jeans, and Dean’s breathing hard. His face is flushed from more than just the heat of the day.

As the moment draws out between them, Sam really, really wishes that his brother weren’t wearing sunglasses right now. He needs to be able to see Dean’s eyes. Needs to see if Dean is okay with this—if he meant this to happen—or if this is freaking him the fuck out. As it is, the only sign that Dean feels anything at all is the nervous shifting of his fingers around the bottle in his left hand. On the grill, the ribs pop and sizzle noisily.

Finally, just when Sam is certain that it’ll be dark and the ribs a burnt, cold lump beside them before one of them breaks, Dean clears his throat and says, “Surprise.”

His voice is a little rough—awkwardness creeping in around the edges—but there’s a strong enough trace of humor there for the terrible tension in Sam’s chest to dissipate. He’s still shocked, but he’s able to blurt, “Dean, what the hell, man?”

One of Dean’s shoulders hitches in a shrug that’s clearly meant to be nonchalant, but the tips of his ears are red as he turns back to the grill. He uses his right hand, mostly hidden by his body, to adjust his dick in his pants and then exchanges the beer for a bowl of sauce and a brush.

“Dean?” Sam tries again. This time he manages to modulate the tangle of emotion in his voice into something calmer—it’s nowhere near as soothing as he wants, but the tense bunch of Dean’s shoulders relaxes by several degrees. He paints the ribs with sauce for a few, quiet moments, and then tilts his head in Sam’s direction—not quite looking at him, but coming closer to it—and licks his lips.

“So, uh, I’ve been doing these exercises.”

“What sort of exercises?” Sam asks, when it’s clear Dean’s done speaking.

The red on Dean’s ears spreads, covering his cheeks and the back of his neck. He purses his mouth in something that looks a little like a grimace and then mumbles something Sam can’t make out.

“What?” Sam checks. “I didn’t hea—”

“Jerking off, okay?” Dean snaps, putting the sauce and brush down on the grill violently enough that the sauce slops out over the lip of the bowl. “Half an hour a day, just me and my right hand and my dick. That what you wanted to hear, huh? You happy now?”

Sam ignores the biting hostility in his brother’s response—Dean’s embarrassed, and when he’s embarrassed he gets defensive; nothing Sam can do but look past it—and asks seriously, “Did it work?”

“You mean did I get off?” Dean asks. The words are stiff and stilted, but Sam is watching his brother’s body carefully and almost all of the tension is gone. Before Sam can answer, Dean lets out a short, hard breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Couple of times, yeah,” he says, answering his own question.

“That’s—Dean, that’s phenomenal!”

The set of Dean’s mouth is sour as he turns to look at Sam, and Sam belatedly realizes how condescending that must have sounded.

“I, uh,” he backpedals. “I mean, considering. You know. Not that it’s a big deal. I mean, people do it all the time, but, uh, I guess it is for you, a big deal, I mean, uh ...” He trails off, words drying up under his brother’s stony stare. He can feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck; the day suddenly feels about twenty degrees hotter.

Then Dean bursts out laughing.

Sam stands where he is stiffly for a few moments, trying to catch up, until Dean pulls his shades off and wipes at his eyes, all the while laughing in that loud, open way that Sam’s still getting used to. It’s obvious that something about Sam’s verbal clumsiness has struck him as hilarious, and Sam grins ruefully, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Dude,” Dean manages between guffaws. “Your—shoulda seen—your f-face.”

“Ha-ha,” Sam mumbles, but his grin widens further as Dean beams at him. Dean’s eyes are sparkling—with good humor and tears from laughing so hard—and now he shakes his head, slipping his shades back on and turning around to face the grill.

“People do it all the time,” he mimics, flipping one of the ribs with a soft snicker. Then, more loudly, he asks, “Speaking from experience there, Sammy? Been spanking the monkey yourself lately?”

“I’m pleading the fifth,” Sam answers.

Of course they both know he has been. Twice it’s happened within Dean’s hearing, both times after a particularly heavy make-out session where Sam was certain his balls were going to fall off if he didn’t get release soon. But neither of them really wants to acknowledge it, for the simple reason that neither one of them wants to acknowledge how far Dean is from being able to handle that sort of thing.

Sure enough, Dean clears his throat dismissively, blowing past his own joke and Sam’s awkward response, before saying, “Anyway, I thought maybe tonight after dinner, we could give that blowjob thing another shot. Without Dad walking in this time.”

Sam’s brain ( _and his libido_ ) is still stuck on his brother’s offer when the memory registers. Dad walking in, catching him on his knees between Dean’s legs. The argument that followed. The disappointment and defeat in Dad’s eyes.

Dean hasn’t talked to Dad since.

He doesn’t want to talk about him now either—Sam gets that from the overly energetic way Dean has suddenly busied himself with the grill, fiddling with the buttons and leaning down to tap on the gas tank like there’s something wrong with it.

It isn’t as though Sam wants to dwell on that disastrous moment himself—it’s making his stomach queasy just thinking about it—but he has talked to Dad, several times, and he wishes like hell things didn’t have to be like this. Of all the things the yellow-eyed demon took from Dean, Sam thinks that he resents the son of a bitch for this the most. For breaking Dean apart from Dad.

And isn’t that ironic as hell, considering how many times Sam wished Dean would shove away from the man on his own.

Dean straightens and pulls the lid on the grill closed, then stands there with his hands flexing on the handle and his head down. After a brief pause, he mutters, “Dude, say something.”

Sam might be tired, and he’s definitely been caught off-guard by the conversation, but he can tell that it isn’t time to have a discussion about Dad any more than it’s the right moment to brace Dean about the cuffs. With a little effort, he focuses his mind on the topic he is allowed to discuss and then asks, “Are you—Dean, are you sure you’re ready?”

Dean sighs—a hard exhalation through pursed lips—and then lifts his head to look out over the back yard. Sam isn’t sure which part of the yard his brother is focusing on—the vegetable and herb garden, the grassy lawn, or the brown slash of the pit in the distance where Winston and the rest of the guys are helping them build an in-ground swimming pool. No guarantees Dean is seeing any of it, he guesses. This sort of conversation is just the type to leave Dean’s internal eyes wide open and focused on the past to the exclusion of everything else around him.

“No,” he says finally. “I’m not sure. But you gotta get back on the horse sooner or later, right?”

“I don’t want to do this if you aren’t sure,” Sam argues, even though there’s a part of him that’s sobbing at the unfairness of having to turn his brother’s offer down.

“Dude,” Dean says with a hint of annoyance as he turns around again and pulls his shades off. He’s squinting in the bright sun, but without the sunglasses he’s easier to read, and Sam relaxes a little at the fond exasperation he sees there. Maybe Dean was looking at the carrots and corn after all. “I’m never gonna be sure—you get that, right? No matter when we do this, chances are good I’m gonna end up kicking you in the face or something.”

“Then we—”

“But,” Dean interrupts firmly, fixing Sam with a steady look. “I really, really want to try.” His lips quirk up on one side and he tilts his head, dragging his eyes up and down Sam’s body in a way that leaves Sam feeling more than a little naked. “Your mouth, my cock. Could be a beautiful thing.”

Sam knows it could. He can see it in his head—remembers how hard it made him, having Dean’s cock in his mouth. The weight of him on Sam’s tongue, the taste of him ... Just thinking of it now is enough to leave him light-headed and short of breath.

Dean must see the effect he’s having—Sam doesn’t have it in him to be anything but transparent right now—but he just shrugs casually and turns around to refocus his attention on the grill.

“Think about it,” he tosses over his shoulder as he lifts the lid again and peers at the smoking meat. “You can tell me what you’ve decided after we eat.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As good as the ribs are—and Sam doesn’t doubt that they’re first class, considering the chef—Sam doesn’t taste them at all. He’s too busy getting distracted every time Dean shifts in his chair—and no, Dean’s newfound fascination with staring at Sam’s mouth isn’t helping. He’s too flustered to keep Bonham’s snout out of his plate, actually, and ends the meal chasing the dog around the yard in an attempt to get the rib away from him before Bonham chokes on it.

By the time he has the coveted bone in hand ( _teeth marks clearly etched into the surface where Bonham chomped down a little too enthusiastically_ ), Dean has cleared the plates off the patio table where they were eating and is nowhere in sight. Sam herds Bonham through the sliding doors and into the kitchen, expecting to find his brother by the sink, only to find that room empty as well. He avoids Bonham’s last ditch attempt to snatch the rib back and then tosses the bone into the garbage they’ve hidden in one of the lower cabinets where the dog won’t be able to reach it.

The pile of dishes in the sink is uncharacteristic of his brother—Dean’s a damn Nazi when it comes to the kitchen—and Sam pauses to shout, “Dean?”

“I’m upstairs!” his brother’s voice calls back, filtering into the kitchen from somewhere on the second floor. “Gonna take a shower. I spilled the damn sauce when I was bringing it inside.”

Sam turns, eyes focused downward now, and locates the spill he missed before—a spray of dark red sauce that’s quickly disappearing beneath Bonham’s tongue. The dog’s tail is going a mile a minute and Sam checks his instinctual forward surge to pull him away. He’s fairly certain there’s nothing in the sauce that could hurt the mutt, and putting up with some possible gas or diarrhea in the near future is preferable to the effort it would take to drag Bonham away from his treat.

“Walking stomach,” Sam mutters under his breath as he turns back toward the sink. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why the dog and Dean get on so well together—mutual interests.

By the time Sam finishes with the dishes, stacking them carefully in the drying rack, Bonham is done with the spilled sauce. Watching Sam from the corner of his eyes, he licks his paws from his place over by the sliding door. A few minutes more and he’s going to be sprawled out on his side making whuffing snoring noises while his paws twitch.

Sam pauses long enough to spray the well-licked floor with Lysol and give it a good scrub before heading upstairs. He can hear Dean’s shower still running, and is grateful that the house has two bathrooms. He might not have spilled anything on himself, but it’s been a long day and he’s overdue for a rinse of his own. Once he’s clean, he’s sure that his brain will be working well enough to process Dean’s offer.

Passing his brother’s closed door without more than a quick glance, Sam steps into his own bedroom long enough to grab a change of clothes and then hurries down the hall to the bathroom at the end. The door is mostly closed, only hanging open a crack, and Sam pushes it open only to freeze with his breath in his throat.

Clearly, that wasn’t his brother’s shower he heard, because Dean is in here, leaning against the sink with a towel wrapped around his waist and a welcoming smile on his face. Past him, the shower is on and warm steam is escaping in tiny puffs around the plastic curtain.

“Took you long enough,” he says as Sam stands there staring, but he doesn’t move, and now that Sam’s shock is starting to wear off, the wariness in Dean’s expression is registering. Like he’s uncertain of his welcome.

“Dean, are you su—”

Dean’s glare shuts Sam’s mouth before he can finish. And Sam gets that asking that question pisses his brother off, but he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. There have been so many false starts between them, so many times Dean just rolled over and let Sam touch him—let Sam damage him—and Dean might be a different, stronger person now, but Sam can’t erase that other, broken version of his brother from his memory.

“You coming in or what?” Dean demands.

Sam starts to move forward, stops, thinks about stepping back, and then says, “I’m trying to figure that out.”

Dean still hasn’t pushed away from the sink, but Sam sees his brother’s knuckles going white where they’re gripping the edge of the counter. “Well, make up your damned mind already,” Dean says, voice still steady and even.

Sam looks into his brother’s eyes, trying to read his emotional state, and has to give it up as an impossible job. There’s too much going on in Dean’s head right now, which means Sam is left with a simple decision. Either he trusts Dean to be honest with him, or he doesn’t.

Taking a deep ( _hopefully unnoticeable_ ) breath, he steps forward into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

Now Dean moves, pushing away from the sink and stepping forward to stand just before Sam. He isn’t meeting Sam’s eyes anymore, his own gaze focused on Sam’s collarbone as he takes the change of clothes out of Sam’s hands and puts it on the counter. There’s a brief, charged pause where Sam stares at the flecks of gold lightening his brother’s irises and then Dean’s hands are on the lower hem of Sam’s shirt.

Heart beating too quickly and stomach fluttering, Sam lets his brother undress him. He lifts his arms to help Dean maneuver his t-shirt off over his head, but otherwise doesn’t move—doesn’t want to startle his brother. There’s one worrying, agonizing moment when Dean pushes Sam’s jeans and boxers down in one go and Sam’s cock pops out already erect and ready to go, but it isn’t like Sam can do anything about that. Not with Dean practically naked and crouched in front of him. Not with the knowledge that this shower is going to end with Dean’s cock in his mouth.

But Dean doesn’t panic. Instead, Sam gets an amused glance from his brother.

“Well, well, well,” Dean drawls, running one hand up the inside of Sam’s leg and making him tense with a hiss. “Someone’s excited.”

His hand stops just out of reach, fingertips moving in tiny, circular movements over the sensitive skin of Sam’s inner thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam complains, which gets him a flash of Dean’s teeth as his brother takes his hand away and straightens again.

“Patience is a virtue,” Dean announces, and Sam is really, really tempted to knock that grin right off his brother’s face. Instead, he reaches out and gets hold of the towel around his brother’s waist. Dean stills, sobering, and Sam’s own desperate annoyance is curbed by concern. He starts to step back again, only to have his right wrist caught by Dean’s hand.

“Do it,” Dean says softly.

“Maybe you should do it yourse—”

“I can’t.” Dean’s expression is as open as Sam has ever seen it, his eyes filled with mingled fear and want as he looks up at Sam. “I want to, but you—you’re gonna have to, okay?”

As he stares into his brother’s pleading eyes—so much trust there, so much longing—Sam feels the jumbled, terrified pieces of his chest fall into a steadier configuration.

This isn’t a false start. This is Dean asking him for help with something he wants to achieve—something he trusts Sam to make good for him instead of disastrous. And just like Sam always needed to lean on his big brother’s confidence when he was younger, Dean desperately needs to lean on Sam right now.

The least Sam can do is step up to the plate.

Cautiously and slowly, Sam takes hold of the towel and waits for Dean to release his wrist. It takes Dean almost a full minute, and he has to drop his eyes first, but finally his fingers uncurl. His hand falls away, back to his side. He licks his lips, shifting beneath the weight of Sam’s scrutiny, and Sam leans in to press a light kiss against his brother’s cheek.

“I’ve got you, Dean,” he whispers before moving back again and waiting for the final go-ahead.

Dean’s jaw works for a moment and then, tightly, he says, “Just take off the damn towel, asshole.”

Sam does, pulling the tucked-in end free and then unwrapping the cotton from around his brother’s waist. Dean’s breath catches and a moment later Sam feels his thigh brush against his brother’s. Their bare stomachs touch—slide of skin echoed when the tip of Sam’s cock grazes the hollow of Dean’s hip.

Dean starts to flinch away, then stills. As Sam holds himself steady, waiting, Dean’s jaw clenches and his expression hardens. A moment later, he leans against Sam, one hand lightly skimming down Sam’s back before coming to a firmer rest on his ass.

“You okay?” Sam can’t resist checking.

It might be his voice, it might be the question itself—hell, it might be the fact that Dean’s standing there naked with another person in the room and not immediately getting shoved against the most convenient flat surface. Whatever the reason, the worst of the tension drains from his muscles.

“Dude, you reek,” he deadpans. “You should probably do something about that.”

“Got any suggestions?”

Dean’s mouth twitches in something that’s almost a smile. “Couple, maybe. But you could start with a shower.”

 

Sam gets in first—mostly because he figures Dean will feel more comfortable without someone at his back. Dean doesn’t protest the maneuver, and the way he drops what feels like a grateful kiss against the top of Sam’s shoulder as he steps in after Sam tells him that this was the right way to go. Even if it does mean that he can’t see the way the water looks running off of Dean’s skin.

Plenty of time for that later.

“Pass the soap?” Dean requests, resting his chin on Sam’s shoulder and nosing the side of his neck.

Sam’s mouth is dry as he obeys, all of his attention focused on the way Dean has started mouthing teasingly at the side of his throat. He fumbles the soap, drops it, and then nearly slams his head against the faucet when he bends over to pick it up again and Dean chooses that moment to rub himself against Sam’s upturned ass.

Sam’s fantasies don’t usually run this way, but right now Sam is rethinking the merits of his brother’s experience with women. Dean might not ever have had sex with a man before ( _Sam refuses to count what the yellow-eyed demon did to his brother_ ) but he’s been with enough women to know what to do with his cock, and Sam can’t help wondering what it’d be like—if Dean would slide in gently and tenderly, or if he’d ride Sam with relentless, rough thrusts until Sam’s voice is hoarse and broken from begging, or if…

“You gonna come back up with that anytime soon?” Dean’s teasing voice calls, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. Despite the implied demand of his words, though, he’s still pressed up against Sam with both hands gripping Sam’s hips. And Dean is interested enough that Sam can tell his brother is happy to be there.

“You’re being a little distracting,” Sam points out, which gets him a pleased chuckle as Dean gives his hips a quick squeeze before finally backing up.

“Soap, bitch.”

Sam’s immediately regrets his comment—which was in no way, shape or form meant as a complaint—but he straightens without protest. It really was too much to hope for that being in a close, confined space with his brother’s naked body would be at all easy on his overactive libido.

This time, when Sam holds the soap out behind him, he manages to make the pass off without incident. With most of his attention focused on the subtle sounds of Dean lathering up behind him, Sam ducks his head briefly into the spray, wetting his hair and face.

And then splutters as Dean’s wet, soapy hand closes around his cock.

“Fuck!” he chokes. He gropes around him for something to hold onto; comes up with the slick shower wall on one side and the insubstantial curtain on the other. And Dean isn’t just holding him, which would be torturous enough. No, Dean is very definitely _fondling_ Sam’s cock, sliding his sud-covered fingers up and down Sam’s length in a way that’s making all sorts of thoughts flash through Sam’s head.

He bites down on his lower lip to keep from suggesting any of those things out loud—feels a sting and tastes blood.

“Relax,” Dean breathes, plastering himself against Sam’s back a second time. He kisses Sam’s cheek, the corner of his jaw, his throat.

“Dean,” Sam gasps. He tries to put everything he’s feeling into that one word—all of his love and excitement and awe and, most of all, his fear that this is moving too fast, that this isn’t what Dean needs—and doesn’t know that he manages it. He isn’t sure, actually, that he wants to have managed it, because if Dean _stops_ then Sam is going to fucking kill him, but Sam is terrified that this isn’t okay, that it’s too soon, that—

“I said _relax_ , dude,” Dean repeats, slinging his other arm around Sam’s chest and hugging him close.

The new position leaves the water beating against Sam’s nipples and cascading down his chest, which feels way more erotic than it has any right to, and he damn near whimpers when the flow trickles down over his erection, water sliding between Dean’s fingers and washing away some of the suds but generally just making everything slippery as hell.

Behind Sam, Dean angles his head up, getting his mouth by Sam’s ear, and whispers, “Gonna make this good for you.”

His hand tightens around Sam’s cock, setting up a stroking rhythm through the steady flow of the water, and Sam’s mouth falls open. His head drops back, resting against Dean’s shoulder, and he has absolutely no choice but to let Dean take all of his weight because his legs just aren’t capable of supporting him right now. Dean is smiling—Sam can see that much from beneath his mostly lowered lids—and then there’s a satisfied flash of teeth when he drags his thumb over the head of Sam’s cock and gets a languid roll of Sam’s body in response.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re an easy lay?” Dean observes.

Sam can’t even argue right now. Not when Dean is speeding his stroke—not when Sam is hyperaware that it’s Dean’s hand on him instead of his own, that this is _Dean_ jerking him off. Dean’s doing so of his own free will, and he’s smiling, and teasing Sam, and Sam can’t keep still anymore, rolling his hips and moaning while his brother’s fingers tug and coax him closer to the edge.

“Dean,” he manages again. “Fuck, _Dean_.”

He turns his head to the side, trying to get some eye contact, and Dean cranes his neck to meet him. It’s an awkward kiss, but with a little extra strain on Sam’s part he’s able to twist his head around enough to cover Dean’s mouth with his own. Dean seems only too happy with the new angle, parting his own lips and letting Sam’s tongue inside with a quiet, eager noise and a tightening of his arm around Sam’s chest. Sam can’t get enough air like this, but he doesn’t give a shit because it’s happening, Dean is doing this, Dean is here with him and not shying away.

And then Sam’s orgasm hits him like a charley horse, strong enough to border on painful and rippling up through his body in a wave. He loses all semblance of control over the kiss, mouth going open and slack as he makes incoherent, hurt noises and shakes. Dean’s hand slows to a near halt, although his fingers are still stroking over the head restlessly—getting in the way of Sam’s shooting, judging by the brief, slippery slide Dean’s caress takes on before the flow of water washes both his hand and Sam’s cock clean.

Tiny aftershocks of intense pleasure leave Sam panting into his brother’s mouth, but Dean waits patiently until the worst of them have subsided before kissing Sam with gentle thoroughness. The hand he used to bring Sam off lifts to stroke the side of Sam’s face, pushing wet curls of hair away from his cheek and tucking them behind his ear. Sam tries to scrape up a few shreds of coherence but is too stunned by the enormity of what just happened to respond before Dean breaks the kiss.

“Okay, Sasquatch,” Dean murmurs, nudging Sam’s back with one shoulder. “Stand up before you crush me.”

Even as dazed as he is, Sam hears the thread of nerves running through his brother’s voice, and that more than anything else gets him standing on his own instead of slumping back against Dean. Moving forward leaves him with a faceful of spray, so he shifts to the side and puts his back against the wall instead.

When he turns his head to look at Dean, his brother is flushed and fidgety, but at least he’s meeting Sam’s gaze. More importantly, his cock is actually half hard where it hangs between his legs, which is definitely not what Sam was expecting.

Sam gives himself another moment, waiting for his heart to slow to a pace that doesn’t leave him worried it’s about to come out of his chest, and then says, “Don’t get me wrong, because that was fucking incredible, but you didn’t have to do that.”

One side of Dean’s mouth hitches up into a lopsided smile as he responds, “Didn’t want you distracted when it’s my turn. I figure if I’m getting a blowjob, I’m getting one from someone who isn’t a couple of firm strokes away from shooting. Cause I’ve been bit by chicks before, and let me tell you, it ain’t a bowl of cherries.”

Sam stares at his brother, trying to work that through in his head, and then says, “I think you just insulted me.”

Dean’s smile widens into something more amused and genuine.

“Oh, fuck it,” Sam mutters, smoothing his wet hair back against his skull with both hands. He can’t bring himself to care right now about Dean maybe impugning his sexual skills and very definitely calling him ( _for the thousandth time_ ) a chick. He’s too blissed out and contented for that.

Christ, all he really wants to do is sink down to the tub and be limp for a while.

Then Dean moves forward into the spray. There really isn’t enough room in this shower for the two of them, and those few steps have left Dean basically in Sam’s lap. Dean’s ignoring him with painful deliberateness, like he can’t feel Sam’s chest rubbing against his shoulder or Sam’s softening cock bumping his hip. Sam can’t stop staring, though—watching the way the water beats down onto Dean’s upturned face and wets his hair and trickles down his tanned body.

No way in hell is Sam getting hard again anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _want_ , and he reaches out now, putting a tentative hand on his brother’s stomach.

“Dean,” he says quietly.

Dean doesn’t respond, but he does tilt his head slightly, which is almost a question.

“Dean, I want to suck you.”

Dean gives a tiny shiver—good response, Sam thinks from the way his brother’s cock perks up a little more.

“We can shower later,” Sam offers, daring to rub Dean’s stomach lightly. He doesn’t want to lose this moment and anyway, he’s pretty sure that his brother is going to want to shower again afterwards no matter how it goes.

Dean’s throat works and his eyes move rapidly behind his closed lids. He turns his face toward Sam, eyes still shut. After a brief pause, he starts to open his mouth, then stops and clears his throat, and finally settles for nodding.

Sam leans around his brother’s body and turns off the spray.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s Dean’s room Sam moves them to—further to walk, but he thinks Dean will be slightly more comfortable here, surrounded by his own things, and Dean already looks more than nervous enough. Oh, he’s still smiling and obviously into it when he tosses his towel on a convenient chair, but he’s too restless. His eyes keep moving around the room without finding anywhere to pause for more than a few seconds. He won’t look at the bed at all.

This is so not going to work.

But Dean is moving toward the bed anyway, shoulders squared the way they get whenever Dean is facing an unpleasant chore. Or when he’s freaked out and refuses to admit to being human.

Sam considers putting the brakes on again, and then reaches out as another thought occurs to him, catching his brother’s hand before Dean can climb onto the mattress.

“Wait.”

“You pussying out on me, man?” Dean demands, response sharper than Sam thinks he means it to be. It’s another sure sign of anxiety, but it also tells Sam that calling this off without even giving it a shot is a bad idea. There’s no telling how Dean would interpret that sort of move.

“No,” he reassures his brother, thankful when some of the tension in Dean’s eyes fades. He licks his lips and then continues, “Just—let me try something.”

Dean regards Sam dubiously, but doesn’t say anything as Sam moves past him and lies on the bed, pulling one of his brother’s pillows down about a foot so that he has something to prop his head on. When he’s finally comfortable, lying on his back with his feet hanging off the bottom of the mattress, he glances up at his brother.

Dean’s expression is an odd mix of befuddled and amused.

“Okay, now what?” he says after a beat.

Sam offers what he hopes is a seductive smile and pats the mattress with one hand. “Get up here.”

Still looking at Sam like he isn’t sure Sam hasn’t gone completely nuts, Dean cautiously crawls onto the edge of the bed. He seems to get where Sam wants him, but clearly harbors some doubts on the prospect because he hesitates just out of reach to note, “This doesn’t seem like it’s going to wor— _whoa_!”

Sam ignores the protest, manhandling his brother until he has Dean positioned above him in an awkward straddle, one of Dean’s knees dimpling the mattress on either side of Sam’s chest, and then has to bite his tongue to avoid laughing at the startled expression on his brother’s face.

“Dude, what the _fuck_?” Dean demands, blinking down at him.

Resting his hands lightly on his brother’s tensed thighs, Sam answers, “I thought this might be a good position.”

Dean on top, is what he means. Dean in a position of control. Dean able to get away easily if he needs to.

Sam watches his brother assess his location—knees wide apart and pressing against Sam’s armpits, his ass just above Sam’s stomach and his cock dangling over Sam’s chest—and then Dean opens his mouth to complain, “This is awkward as fuck.”

Now that they’re here, Sam can’t really deny that. He tries lifting his head to get at his brother’s ( _by now mostly limp_ ) dick, and all he gets for his trouble is a twinge down the back of his neck and a warning tightness in his shoulders.

It seemed like an excellent idea when he thought of it, but this position is turning out to be the worst tease ever. Sam can see and smell Dean’s cock, which is dangling just inches away. He can almost taste it. But as far as Sam’s flexibility is concerned, those inches might as well be miles.

Now he knows how Tantalus feels.

He’s considering the problem when Dean lets out a compressed, annoyed burst of air and nudges Sam’s underarm with one knee.

“Shift up,” Dean mutters.

Sam isn’t sure what good that’s going to do, but he slides back up the bed anyway, coming half up on his elbows as he does so.

“Right—hold on a sec.”

Reaching over, Dean grabs a second pillow and Sam’s eyes widen in comprehension. He accepts the pillow wordlessly, and then twists around beneath his brother to stack it on top of the first before dropping down onto his back again. Now that his upper body has been elevated a little, his mouth is in a much more convenient location and the position feels a lot less awkward. Sam can’t help licking his lips at the sight of Dean’s cock hanging right in front of him, and he doesn’t miss the way his brother’s breath hitches in response.

Yeah, this has all sorts of potential.

“Okay,” Dean says. “What now?”

He’s clearly trying to sound casual, but his voice is too shaky for that particular deception to work. His expression is giving him away as well—he’s staring down at Sam’s face like Sam’s about to shove him out in front of a sold-out stadium. Naked.

Still, there’s excitement there, too, and so far Sam thinks his brother’s anticipation is edging out his dread.

“Now we do whatever you want,” Sam answers, daring to rub Dean’s broad thigh with one hand. “Your pace, Dean. You’re in control. If you want to stop, all you have to do is get off.”

“And if I want to _get off_?” Dean shoots back, hiding himself behind the glib joke to avoid whatever feelings Sam’s words stirred up inside of him. “You gonna swallow or spit?”

Sam isn’t entirely thrilled that his brother is resorting to humor as defense at a time like this—he’d be more comfortable if Dean would be honest with him, if he could see the damage and warning signs coming—but he understands that Dean needs this. He needs his walls and his masks. He needs to convince himself that he’s fine with this, and confident about what’s going to happen here.

All Sam can do is try to help his brother live up to that confidence, and wait patiently for the day when they can do this without any of the bullshit Dean’s falling back on now.

He tries to convey some of his own faith in his brother with the soothing stroke of his knuckles against the outside of Dean’s thigh, but keeps his voice light as he answers, “Dunno. Guess we’re going to have to find out.”

Instead of relaxing Dean the way they’re supposed to, though, Sam’s words leave Dean suddenly stiff and wary. All of his muscles are tensed—pretty sight to look at, but alarming in a way that leaves Sam’s heart racing and his stomach turning over unhappily.

“What’s wrong?” he asks urgently, resting his hand flat against Dean’s thigh. He’d be insisting that they stop right now if he didn’t have pretty solid evidence twitching in front of him that Dean is still into this—or at least Dean’s cock is still interested.

“I don’t—” Dean starts and then stops, shifting his eyes to the side before finishing, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The bolt of pain that rips through Sam’s chest at that admission shows in his face—he wasn’t prepared for that statement, wasn’t guarding his expression against it—and Dean is already half off of him before he recovers enough to grab his brother’s waist and haul him back into position. Dean struggles a little—halfheartedly, without any of the violent curses that would have accompanied the movements if they’d been serious attempts to free himself—and then subsides. His face is turned away. A muscle high in his jaw twitches sporadically.

“Hey,” Sam calls gently. “Baby, look at me.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Man up and look at me, then,” Sam returns, tossing the challenge out with only the faintest guilty twinge about maneuvering his brother into doing something that obviously makes him uncomfortable.

But this is a conversation that’s been years in the making, and if Dean is ready to have it—and he damn well better be, if he thinks he’s ready to try this—then Sam isn’t willing to put it off. Who knows how long it’ll be before Dean’s in the right headspace to open up on the subject again?

Sam waits until he gets his brother’s reluctant, shuttered eyes, and then promises, “You aren’t going to hurt me. I want this. I want you.”

Dean fidgets, which makes his cock bob. It’d strike Sam as absurd if he weren’t so focused on getting through to his beautiful, damaged, stubborn mule of a brother.

“What if I choke you?”

Christ.

“You won’t,” Sam manages. If his voice sounds a little hoarse—if his eyes are watering at the thought of why it would occur to his brother to worry about something like that—then he’s willing to ignore it.

“You don’t fucking know that, Sam!” Dean insists. “You don’t know what it’s like to—”

He catches himself before he actually says it. Hauls the words back inside of himself and flattens his lips into a tight, foreboding line. There’s warning in his eyes now, threatening violence if Sam chases after the rest of that kernel.

Carefully, Sam takes his hand off of his brother’s thigh.

“We can try this later,” he says.

Dean stares down at him and doesn’t move.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Sam adds. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

That gets him a response, even if “Fuck you, Sam,” isn’t exactly what he was going for.

Sam counts to ten—twice—and then points out, “I’ve sucked cock before, Dean.”

Dean actually jumps at that, like Sam just slapped him. There’s nothing but shock on his face, which would leave Sam exasperated at any other time, but which he finds reassuring now.

“Dude, you knew I was bi,” he says. “You didn’t think I experimented?”

“I—” Dean licks his lips, glancing shiftily to the side. “I didn’t think about it.”

“I’m not saying I’m an expert or anything, and deep throating is pretty much out of the question, but this isn’t—I _like_ this. And if you can’t understand that I might enjoy giving my boyfriend a blowjob, then I’m sorry, man, but you aren’t ready.”

Dean still isn’t moving, but now his expression is shifting around too rapidly for Sam to follow. He lies where he is, waiting patiently while Dean works things through in his head, and keeps his expression steady when his brother finally says, “This isn’t exactly easy for me.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not letting that yellow-eyed son of a bitch win, so you—you gotta tell me if this isn’t—if I push too hard. You’ve got to—”

“Dean,” Sam says, emphatically but softly, and when his brother falls silent, Sam reaches up and gets both hands around Dean’s waist, thumbs sliding restlessly up and down over Dean’s jutting hipbones. “You do anything I don’t want and I promise I’ll throw you on the floor, okay?”

He’s going for a laugh and an avowal that he can try if he wants to have his ass kicked, but he’ll take the softening sheen of relief in his brother’s eyes.

“My speed?” Dean checks.

Sam nods quietly, holding his brother’s gaze, and then opens his mouth.

For a long moment, Dean just stares down at him. His eyes flick from his own half hard cock, to Sam’s mouth, to Sam’s eyes, and then back to his own cock again. The rhythm of his breathing shifts, and he swallows thickly.

Sam continues to look up, waiting.

Dean mutters to himself under his breath—nothing he could repeat in polite company, Sam is sure, even if he can’t quite make the words out—and sinks lower. His cock briefly bumps Sam’s chin and then Sam strains forward and sucks the head inside.

Dean hisses, stiffening in more ways than one—Sam is actually surprised by how quickly his brother’s cock fills as he flicks his tongue back and forth over the head. This isn’t anything like that first, disastrous blowjob, and the difference gives Sam the confidence to run his hands up and down his brother’s sides. Urging Dean to move, to take what he wants.

Despite Sam’s encouragement and his own obvious desire, Dean limits himself to slow, easy movements. His first thrust is absurdly shallow and tentative, and Sam is really, really thankful that Dean already took care of him in the shower, because at this rate it’s going to take a couple of hours to get Dean going.

Not that Sam minds, of course, if it means having the solid weight of his brother on his tongue. Not if it means he can taste the promise of his brother’s release flooding his mouth.

Dean’s musky, salt-tinged flavor is stronger than he remembers it being—possibly because Dean is actually involved this time, already fully erect and sluggishly leaking precome—but although it’s a positive comparison, Sam quickly shoves the memory away. That first, wretched attempt to offer his brother this experience is years distant. It doesn’t have any bearing on the present.

Keeping his eyes open helps Sam hold his mind here where it belongs. He watches his brother’s stomach muscles flex as Dean slowly rubs the tip of his cock over Sam’s lips. He takes quick glances higher, trying to catch sight of Dean’s face, even though it’s impossible with his brother’s stomach and chest filling his view. Still, the rolling movement of Dean’s hips assures him that Dean is actually into it this time—helps chase those hurtful memories away.

After that, it takes Sam no more than a couple of minutes to get into the moment. The angle of entry makes getting any depth difficult, but that doesn’t seem to be Dean’s goal anyway, and Sam more than makes do with what he’s being given. Without his mouth stuffed full, he has room to swirl his tongue back and forth over the head of his brother’s cock. He can lap at the slit in the tip, coaxing salty blooms of precome with every stroke of his tongue.

Above him, Sam hears the way his brother’s breathing is turning erratic and harsh. When he closes his lips more firmly around his brother’s cock and gives a teasing suck, it gets him an honest to God moan.

“Sammy,” Dean gasps.

His body shifts where he’s balanced on Sam’s chest as he gets one hand down on the mattress to the right of Sam’s head. The change pulls all but the tip of his cock free, so Sam focuses on suckling the sensitive head. Dean’s other hand finds Sam’s face a moment later and pats his cheek clumsily. His trembling fingers slide through the fringe of Sam’s hair, beginning to twine and giving a brief tug before jerking away.

Sam is worried he’s going to lose Dean entirely then—it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out which memory intervened before Dean could get a firm grip—and he quickly grips his brother’s ass with both hands, forcing him closer while straining his head forward. He gets almost half of Dean’s length that way—has the tip of Dean’s cock bumping against the back of his throat—and Dean makes a wild, uncontrolled noise. His thighs clench where they’re pressing on either side of Sam’s chest.

 _That’s it,_ Sam thinks, kneading the flesh beneath his hands in what he hopes is an appropriately coaxing manner. _Come on, Dean._

Dean moves again, and this time Sam _does_ lose him—Dean’s cock slipping free and slapping wetly against Sam’s chin as Dean kneels up and forward. But Dean isn’t rolling off of Sam’s chest and breaking for the door. He’s gripping the headboard with one hand instead, while looking down and finding Sam’s jaw with the other. He hesitates then, questioning despite the foggy hunger in his eyes.

Sam turns his face to the side for a moment, pressing a kiss against his brother’s wrist, and then opens his mouth obligingly.

“Christ,” Dean mutters, and then there’s a few awkward moments while he tugs Sam up higher and Sam shoves up onto his elbows and then, thank god, Sam’s on the right level. He’s even able to rest the back of his head against the wooden headboard, which is going to make this an easier position to hold.

This time, as Dean shifts forward, guiding his cock toward Sam’s mouth, he keeps his hand clutching the headboard—arm extended and locked—and his head down, watching from beneath half-lowered lashes. His cock slides forward over Sam’s tongue—shallow, slow thrusts that are nevertheless darkening Dean’s eyes to a deep pine color. Dean’s lips are parted and shiny—the lower one red and a little swollen, like he’s been biting down on it. His skin is flushed—throat and face and chest and stomach, goddamned everywhere—and that’s beautiful to look at, but it’s the depth of stunned relief on his brother’s face that’s really getting to Sam.

That look that says he’s finally starting to understand how this is supposed to feel.

And then, of course, he pushes in at just the wrong angle and Sam gags.

Panic on Dean’s face, and fear, and sickening guilt.

“Shit,” he swears, immediately pulling back.

Still coughing on his own spit, Sam catches hold of his brother and keeps him where he is until he can manage to gasp, “I’m fine.”

“You’re fucking choking, Sam!”

“It’s a blow job,” Sam replies, already speaking more easily. “It happens.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t happening to you.”

Dean starts pulling away again, more seriously this time, and Sam acts without thinking, stretching forward and getting his mouth back on his brother’s cock. The angle is a little different this time, allowing him to swallow even more, and it has the desired effect of freezing Dean in place and unfocusing his eyes.

Dean’s hand clenches on the headboard. His head falls back on a weak, involuntary, “Fuck.”

Reassured that Dean has been momentarily incapacitated, Sam lets his brother’s cock slide back out of his mouth and says, “I want to do this, Dean. Stop worrying about me, all right?”

It takes Dean a few moments to collect himself, and then longer to stare at the wall while he sorts through whatever fucked up crap is clogging his head. Sam watches his brother warily for signs that this is going to turn into a full-blown episode—Dean hardly ever has them these days, but if anything is going to kick one off, Sam figures that this would do it—but Dean seems to be steadying.

Finally, he looks back down at Sam and says, “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much in bed?”

Sam recognizes that as the olive branch it is, and he offers up a silent thanks to whatever higher power is listening as he replies, “So shut me up already.”

They’re words designed to goad Dean into action, and they have the desired effect. Dean’s eyes narrow, and this time when he cups Sam’s cheek he also hooks his thumb past Sam’s teeth, keeping his jaws parted and his mouth accessible as he pushes forward again. Dean’s thumb makes it more difficult for Sam to use his tongue, but there’s something thrilling about Dean taking control like this—Dean taking back the pleasurable impulses of his body—and Sam tilts his head back as far as it will go, forcing his mouth wider without further coaxing.

The first bump of Dean’s cock against the back of his throat makes Sam’s eyes water and Dean, who’s watching, hesitates. Which is goddamned frustrating, when Sam can feel his own cock stirring back to life between his legs, and he releases his brother’s ass to get a loose hand around Dean’s balls. It’s Dean’s turn to choke now, eyes squeezing shut and then fluttering wide as Sam gently squeezes and works the tight, hot sacs resting on his palm.

Dean manages to control himself for another few easy slides before Sam’s fondling and the moist heat of his mouth drive him over the edge. Then, breathing hard, he releases Sam’s mouth to grab the headboard with both hands. He braces himself there, rough, dirty sounds spilling from his lips, and starts actually thrusting.

 _Finally_ , Sam thinks, hanging onto Dean’s hip with his left hand and continuing to massage his brother’s balls with his right. Dean’s cock is sliding halfway down his throat on every push now, and Sam is shocked to find how easy it is to take him in—how much he wants more. More of Dean’s cock, more of this unaccustomed, wild abandon, more of his brother any way he can get him.

It takes a while for anything to penetrate through the pounding of his own blood in his ears, but eventually Sam realizes that there are words mixed in the sounds Dean is making—something between moans and gasps.

“Sam,” Dean pants, the wooden headboard creaking under his hands. “Sammy, fuck.”

And then the words disappear into a desperate, choked noise. Dean’s hips stutter, wild rhythm lost, and his eyes, which were tightly closed, fly open in something that looks like shock. His mouth goes slack and loose, then tightens, and as his muscles go taut with tension, Sam tastes the first real flow of semen at the back of his mouth.

Hastily releasing Dean’s hip, he reaches down to grab his own erection and jacks himself roughly as he watches the myriad of emotions flickering over his brother’s face, Dean’s expression unguarded in a way it hardly ever is. That salty, bitter taste of Dean’s come strengthens as his brother’s release fills his mouth, and as Dean starts to sag above him, Sam’s own orgasm takes him, hard and fast. He keeps Dean in his mouth through it, sliding his tongue through the come to tease his brother’s spent cock, and then, careful not to spill anything, draws off.

Dean winces as his cock falls free, the haze in his eyes clearing somewhat as cooler air hits his sensitive skin. He shifts his weight and moves his hands on the headboard like he’s thinking of going somewhere.

Sam releases his own dick to grab his brother’s hip again, reclaiming Dean’s attention and not-so-accidentally smearing him with come in a single motion. When he’s sure Dean is seeing him, he opens his mouth to show him the come still held there, and then closes again to swallow.

“Motherfucker,” Dean breathes, swaying.

Clearly, it’s time to let his brother lie down before he falls down, so Sam reluctantly moves his hand away from Dean’s balls and helps him ease his right leg over Sam’s chest to join his left on the other side of Sam’s body. Uncurling his hands from the headboard takes some doing, judging by the pained expression on Dean’s face, but it isn’t more than a few seconds before Dean is a collapsed lump on the bed to Sam’s right.

Sam gives him a minute or so to recover and then rolls over, getting an arm around his brother’s chest and burying his face against Dean’s hair.

“Christ,” Dean mutters. “I fucking knew you’d be a cuddler.”

But there’s no venom in the words, and Dean mostly sounds… happy. Which is actually more than Sam was hoping for.

All of this was really more than Sam was hoping for.

Smiling, he shuts his eyes and tugs Dean closer.

“I thought we were showering now,” Dean says.

“Too tired,” Sam mumbles. “You wore me out.”

For almost three, precious minutes, Dean allows himself to be held. He allows Sam to bask in the moment, in their closeness. But Sam isn’t stupid enough to think that will last forever, and he’s disappointed but unsurprised when Dean begins to fidget against him.

“Thanks,” he says then, taking his arm back and giving his brother room to slide off the bed. There’s a tiny twinge of hurt at how quickly Dean gets up, but he knows it isn’t personal.

“For what, dude?” Dean replies. “You’re the one who just got me off.”

Smiling lazily, Sam flops onto his back and lets his brother get a good look at the evidence of the fact that he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed what they just did. Even without opening his eyes, he can feel Dean’s startlement and confusion, and for a moment he wishes that the demon weren’t dead.

Son of a bitch died too easily.

“I, uh,” Dean says after a moment, sounding more awkward than Sam wants him to. “I gotta shower.”

Of course he does.

Sam nods without opening his eyes. “I’ll clear out before you get back,” he says. “Got an early day tomorrow anyway.”

It’s true, and allows them both to avoid the issue, and he’s already mentally preparing himself to get up when Dean surprises him by saying, “Don’t? I, uh. I mean if you want to, sure, but… you don’t have to. If you, um, wanted to stay.”

Sam’s throat is tighter and sorer than it should be from that blowjob, and he has to swallow again before he can answer, “Yeah, man. I’d like to. I’d like that a lot.”


End file.
